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Overture

We live in hard and stirring times, Too sad for mirth, too rough for rhymes.

—Stephen Foster

WHY, DR. GARMANY, just look at the state of your hands! And you have blood and cigar ash on your coat.

Yellow primroses! Mr. James, you are too kind. And in this rain! For goodness sake, water is dripping from your hat! Put it in the bedpan, please; I have not used it. They say my womb is wandering, but they will not tell me where. Mr. James, please be acquainted with Dr. Garmany, who will be presiding. You have time to buy a ticket, but only just, for he has already called for the overture. Do say you will! I shall be performing a tragic farce on the Sholes & Glidden. My husband, Franklin, you know. He was grateful for the shaving mug you sent him at Christmas—all the way from London, where the queen is in mourning for us all.

The bedsheet is white, the nurse no taller than a girl. Mr. Tambo and Mr. Bones, O, how you shuffle! On, off. Just look at the horses’ fancy plumes! Gentlemen, I am dying underneath the heavy odor of chloroform. Black night is falling fast. Franklin, do not let go of my hand!